


Every Man Kills The Thing He Loves

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin puts right what little he can as he goes. Warnings for: minor blood-spill, depression, ambiguous suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Man Kills The Thing He Loves

**Author's Note:**

> This is not only my first piece of writing for the Merlin fandom, but also my first finished piece full stop! *punches the air* My Documents folder is overflowing with WIPs, but they all look set to be pretty long (if they're ever finished at all) and I never have as much time/motivation as I would like in order to make any real headway with them. Sigh.
> 
> This piece was initially just me trying to distract myself from my flu on a cold Thursday afternoon, and turned into the best fun I've had in a long while. A big thank you to historymonks for her kind words, cheerleading and tolerance of my unrelenting copy & pasting through gchat.
> 
> By 'ambiguous suicide', I mean to say that it is up to the reader how it is interpreted, but suicide was what I personally had in mind whilst writing.

If he closes his eyes, Merlin can see everything.

He sees the guards on the floor below, standing erect despite the fact their eyelids are drooping beneath their coif. He feels their infinitesimal movements as their limbs begin to go to sleep, one by one. The chain mail hangs heavily and uncomfortably on their frames, their bodies twitch and burn under the strain. He lightens the load, bears some of the weight. The guards stand a little straighter now.

His vision twists and turns down corridors and flights of stairs to see Gaius in his study, head bobbing against his chest as he falls into a stupor at his desk for yet another night, a flask of blue liquid about to tip precariously onto the floor. Merlin clenches his right fist ever so slightly. The bottle pauses mid-air, rights itself, slides back onto the table. He moves on.

In Arthur's chambers he sleeps soundly, contorting his body into uncouth, feline shapes that would never be admitted to come the light of day. One of his many blankets has slipped off the bed, twisted one turn too many in Arthur's determination to find comfort in his slumber. Merlin picks it up with a breeze through the open window. Untwists it with a second gust, lays it back on the bed with a third. A fourth brushes the stray hair from Arthur's face that had begun to tickle his nose; caresses his cheekbone briefly like a gentle brush of knuckles. He sees his eyelids flutter as he dreams, feels his inhale. Exhale. Inhale.  
Merlin moves on.

He passes Gwen in one of the hallways, walking alone and humming to herself. He sees her clutching a vase of wilted flowers, sees her thumb tracing patterns on the crockery as she walks. The scent of sweet herbs and something inherently _Gwen_ swirls around her, drawing patterns in the air. Merlin breathes it in. He sees the angle at which her brows are drawn and mouth is pinched, feels the sorrow radiate off her every fibre in waves. Her mourning for her father, for lost relationships. He takes another breath, this one deeper, and swallows a mouthful of her grief. Two mouthfuls. As much as he can take, but nowhere near as much as he deserves. The angles soften. He moves on.

He sees the maids in their quarters, laboriously dragging their master's clothing garments across a washboard in a barrel of water. He feels the puff of their every breath, feels the beads of perspiration drip down their face with each motion. He feels their bone-deep exhaustion intertwined irrevocably with the knowledge that there are jobs still needing to be done. Merlin lets his sympathy stretch out to bridge the gap, lets it wind itself around their aching muscles to alleviate the pain. He feels their sigh of surprised relief and smiles to himself. He holds the bridge in place; solidifies its foundations. And moves on.

Past the dining hall, through the castle's main doors, down the steps, through the courtyard. The wind whistles in Merlin's ears, causes his head to spin, but he continues, faster and faster, never stopping. He streaks through Camelot, lanterns of yellow contrasting against the blackness. Those who sleep dream of monsters and dragons; those who don't are battling their own. Alone.  
For every house he passes, Merlin takes a bite out of their misery, their palpable gloom. As is only right.  
He enters the forest and his world becomes nothing more than a blur of green. Noises from all sides deafen him, scream his name; no mortal would ever know just how loud a forest can be at night. Rustling trees, singing crickets, the tapping of a squirrel's teeth on a nut, the flap of every bird's wings, every living creature's existence. If he were to expand himself, to become at one with the greenery, he would be able to feel every single occurrence at once reverberating through his body. He would be able to _control_ every single occurrence: the number of heartbeats per second of the white rabbit by the oak, the number of blades of grass a deer consumes with each mouthful. He would be able to snap the neck of the swallow singing for a mate, leave its last sung notes hanging in the air unfinished. No one should have that power.  
And yet.

The further through the forest he flies, the closer he feels himself to Morgana. He isn't aware of her exact location but he feels her presence, her pain, her _fury_ , pressing down on him like a tangible weight, buckling his shoulders. It's nothing that is not deserved, and he bears it with all he can.  
In amongst the screams, Merlin cannot miss the accusations. The names of the lost that he is responsible for. The air displacement of his movement unsettles the leaves on the forest floor; they swirl in the air in front of him, no matter how fast he travels, forming their shrieking faces. The faces of Will, Freya, Balinor, Tom, King Uther, a hundred lost villagers swarm like angry bees. He gathers the wind and tries to punch through them, but the leaves do not disperse. They remain, and grow more vengeful, throwing themselves at Merlin, slashing his face with their edges, spilling his blood. He gathers the wind once more and throws himself and everything he has forward, but to no avail. The wall moves towards him, inch by inch, pushing him back towards the castle, towards everything he was escaping. _No, no, this can't be happening, he has to move on_. The faces continue to scream. He feels the weight of their malevolence, of their lives cut so short, all because of him. Directed at him. Boxing him in from all sides, suffocating him. He feels rather than hears himself shout hoarsely that it's his destiny, _Arthur's_ destiny, for the future of Albion, for the greater good. He feels how worthless his excuses are, feels his weakness, his inability to carry out what so many expect him to. Feels his imminent failure. He drags in a ragged breath, and -

When Merlin opens his eyes, he sees nothing.

At least, that's how it feels at first. His eyes adjust to the darkness, and after a few seconds he can make out the stars sewn into the sky, the clouds illuminated by the moonlight. He breathes out and wills his heartbeat to slow and the adrenaline to dissipate. His body obeys.  
He looks down from where he stands, between two crenellations on the highest turret, and sees the courtyard spread out beneath him like a blanket of comfort. Lanterns twinkle and a soft breeze dances around him, ruffling his hair and billowing his flimsy coat. His body sags with its own weight and the weight of countless others. Fatigue overwhelms him, his incompetence burning through his veins. A single tear tracks down his face.

Merlin takes one last deep breath, and moves on.


End file.
